The Dead Animorph
by LuxaLucifer
Summary: There's only one proper way for a professional soldier to die: the last bullet of the last battle of the last war. – General George S. Patton


My name is Rachel Berenson, and my life made all the difference.

* * *

It's really fucked up, you know, when you think about it. Was it really fated that we were supposed to be the ones to find the dying alien? Like, really, us, five kids (four, really, it was supposed to be only four, because I wasn't accounted for, and thank god for that, right?) were the ones fated to find this incredible thing, to learn about this absolute horror, and we were fucking thirteen years old.

Thirteen year olds.

You can't tell me there wasn't a single other group of five (or four, again, since we're talking about what was all mystical and fated here) people on the entirety of planet Earth that couldn't have done just as good a job as us. Better, even. We made a lot of mistakes. Of course we did. We were fucking kids. I think it's pretty weird that a mystical being looked at a bunch of squirts who still picked their noses and argued about the best sports team (although plenty of grown do that too) and thought, yeah, these are the ones who'll save everything. Maybe we need new mystical beings, or at least we need to make them sit back and reevaluate their priorities.

Look, I'm just saying, there was probably a way that I didn't have to be the one who died. Because this whole thing where it was us, the kids, who had to suffer just feels a little wrong. But honestly? Believe it or not, I'm glad it was us. I'm glad I got the chance to feel so alive, even if it didn't last.

Alive, and part of a group. I can honestly say there wasn't a moment in the past few years where I didn't feel like I was doing the right thing.

My name is Rachel, and I am an Animorph.

* * *

I do regret some things.

Actually, I regret a lot.

Like, romance? What's that? It didn't bother me a whole ton, but damn, I'd have liked a couple more real dates with bird-boy, where he wasn't, you know, a bird. But none of us really get what we want, especially during a war. Especially when you're the only ones fighting the war.

Anyway, I wish we'd been given a couple more chances for all that. Not a real noble thing to ask the Ellimist, but I would have if I'd known to. Just a little more time to relax. A little more time to live my life. A chance, you know? A chance for anything to happen.

My name is Rachel, and I am a woman.

* * *

When I fight, it feels good.

Oh, I know what you're thinking. That's not cool, right? Fighting is bad, enjoying it is worse. But look, I'd rather enjoy it than be trapped in a guilt cycle, wringing my hands as I try to justify my merciless actions to others. I don't need to justify anything to anyone except myself, and if (when) I don't sleep at night this certainly isn't the reason why.

I love being a bear and roaring at the sky, feeling skin rip beneath my claws, knowing that the carnage around me is caused by yours truly, knowing that I am the reason we don't falter in battle. I love the way our enemies pause when I roar; I am frightening, I am fierce, and they know in that moment that I will kill them. I have known that for much longer than they have.

There is nothing like it in the world. The blood pumps, your skin tingles, your energy rises, and you fight. I have never had a feeling that can compare and I never will, I can tell you that much. Never tell the others, but I live for it. Always have.

My name is Rachel, and I am a warrior.

* * *

War is cruel, or whatever, right? War takes everything from you regardless of whether you live or not. War pokes at your days and tears at your nights, ripping your peace of mind away like child's play. It's really damn cruel. I may love fighting, but war? That's a different story.

War takes everything even if it doesn't take your life, and sometimes it takes your life too.

My name is Rachel, and I deserve to live.

* * *

Everyone is always so concerned about their death. I was too, except in a more abstract 'if I die, who'll keep humanity safe from evil mind invading aliens?' way. So I didn't really put a ton of thought into the philosophy portion of it.

But when you die, you want to be remembered. You want people to know your name and miss you and whisper about the good times. And I guess I get that privilege, huh? I'm the dead Animorph, and that's how I'll be remembered for generations upon generations. The Earth will always remember my sacrifice.

I am more than the way I died. I love gymnastics and shopping and hanging out with my friends, I love my parents, I love the way you feel in a morph, I love being the first one awake in the morning so that I can feel like I'm the first person seeing every day's new sunrise. When I wake up in time for that, of course, because I also love sleeping in. I love so much, and I hate so much, and I have to give all that up. It's not fair, so is it too much to ask that people remember the little stuff, that people see me as more than the one who sacrificed themselves?

I just want people to remember me, the real me, the person behind the bear morph.

Please.

* * *

My name was Rachel Berenson, and I lived.


End file.
